by Erin Huss
“Uh, I just … uh … well …” I stammer, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why I would be in Dr. Batch’s office. “I … uh … thought this was the bathroom!” Good one, Zoe. “Oops. My bad. I’ll just … um … be going now.” I side shuffle down the hall, toward the exam rooms, keeping my back against the wall. I do not want Rose to see the file shoved into pants.
“No, you didn’t,” says Rose. “There’s something fishy going on in here, and I don’t like it.”
Ugh. Whatever. I give up. Connie is working on being one of those strong women who can speak their mind, and I should be, too.
“I am a medium, and Dr. Batch is in trouble. She’s dead, and her spirit is here. We need to find out what happened to her. You should absolutely call the police and tell them we have a homicide on our hands.”
Five
In hindsight, it wasn’t the right moment to find my voice.
The words “we have a homicide” had no sooner left my mouth than Rose called security.
I climbed over the counter (well, flopped), and Mike and I ran out of the office as fast as we could. The elevator didn’t seem like the smartest exist strategy, so we opted for the stairwell, which is conveniently located next door to Connie’s office.
“Dude, I can’t believe you said that,” Mike huffs out breathlessly as we pad down the metal steps in the stark stairwell. “You could have left the whole medium thing out of it.”
“You’re probably right.” I come to a stop when I notice a piece of donut on the landing step.
Mike crashes into my back and catches me before I tumble down the rest of the stairs. “What are you doing?”
“Look.” I step aside and point. There are pieces of donut crumbs scattered down the steps. I was in such a rush before that I hadn’t noticed. It can’t be a coincidence that one of Connie’s last memories is of her a donut, and now there are donut crumbs scattered down the stairwell.
We follow the path of crumbs. Connie is solemnly trailing behind us. The donut chunks get smaller as we near an emergency exit on the first floor. I push open the door, and the three of us step outside into an area with three large dumpsters filled to the brim with bags. The area is enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. Behind the dumpsters is an embankment with green ground covering. If Connie and her killer were to have come this way, they’d have had to go over the wall to get to the parking lot or up the embankment to get to the old children’s wing of the hospital.
“This feels like déjà vu,” Connie says, “which is an anomaly of memory. There are two types of déjà vu. One is the pathological déjà vu which is usually associated with epilepsy, and—”
“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” I interrupt. As fascinating as all that sounds, we don’t have the time.
“It’s déjà vu because … because …” Connie’s jaw has fallen, and her face has turned a pale green color. She’s starting to put together the fact that she’s dead. I can see it in her thoughts. This is good. “I’ve never been out here. Why does it feel so familiar?”
“Keep thinking,” I urge her.
“I was here … except, I couldn’t have been out here because Rose dumps the trash. I guess I’m dreaming this up.” She smiles.
She is very stubborn for someone who claims to be so uncertain.
“What did you find in Connie’s office?” Mike asks.
I tell him about the email and about the parent-teacher conference and about the bullying and about the yellow bandana man and about the file shoved in the back of my pants.
“’Make things right,’” Mike says thoughtfully. “Sounds like revenge. It could be Arturo who wants the money, or it could be Don who wants her to stop practicing.”
“We now have Charleyhorse,” I say. “How does he or she know Russell is sneaking around behind Connie’s back? Could this yellow-bandana man be the husband of Russell’s mistress? Why today, of all days, did Charleyhorse decide to tell Connie about the affair?”
“She didn’t say affair, and stop talking about me like I’m not here.” Connie flickers.
“Sorry, she said 'sneaking around.'” Which I’m 99.9% sure means affair, but it’s not worth arguing that point. I pull out the file shoved in the back of my pants and flip it open. It’s slightly damp. Oops. I am a wee bit stressed, and my sweat glands are pumping. “We have Don’s address here. He doesn’t live far. If we get close enough to him, I can see his thoughts.”
“So long as his house isn’t the one I saw in my vision,” Mike says.
Right. Death. “He lives in an apartment. Unit”—I check his address on the form—“twenty-four.”
“What house did you see?” Connie asks.
For a second I consider telling Connie about Mike’s vision. Then I think better of it. She’s having a hard enough time dealing with her own death. I’m not about to burden her with the possibility of mine.
“Uh … we’ll talk about that later,” I say.
“Do you think Connie’s body is in one of these?” Mike hooks his thumbs toward the dumpsters.
“That would be gusty to dump a body in there.” I rise to my toes and push a trash bag out of the way. Beneath that trash bag are more trash bags. “The bins are full. Do you really think this much trash has accumulated in three hours? When is trash day?” I ask Connie.
She responds with a shrug.
“I feel like someone would notice a dead body in there when they came to dump the trash,” I say. Something shiny under one of the dumpsters catches my eye. I drop to the ground to get a better look and see a silver key that is attached to a thick wooden dowel.
“That’s our bathroom key,” Connie says.
“The one that Rose couldn’t find?” Mike asks.
Connie responds with a nod, but since Mike can’t see her, I say, “Yes.”
First we have the donut crumbs that lead us here, and now we have the missing bathroom key. Connie has a feeling that she was out here, so we know she was alive when she arrived.
“We need to look in the bathroom,” I say. “Maybe Connie and the man in a yellow bandana were in there at one point.”
“Good call.” Mike extends a hand and helps me to my feet.
“I agree, yes, let's go to the restroom,” says Connie. “You both need to wash your hands after touching the trash bags and the ground. Do you know how many germs are now festering on your flesh?”
What a lovely thought.
We decide to leave the key where it is and ask for a bathroom key from a different medical office. At some point, the police will need to secure this area, and I don’t want to tamper with evidence.
The three of us sneak back up the stairs. When we reach the third floor, I crack the door open and peek out to make sure the coast is clear.
Standing in the hall just outside of Connie’s office door is Rose and a cop.
No, wait a second, it’s not a cop. It is a security guard. His uniform is deceivingly judicial. The giveaway is the club and pepper spray on his belt—no gun.
Well, that and the SECURITY printed on the front of his shirt.
“His name is Mike Handhofff,” Rose says.
The security guard is tall and broad and has a shaved head and a turned-up nose. “I’ve heard of the Handhoffs,” the guard—Woodson per his nametag—says. “They have a bad reputation in Fernn Valley.”
“Great,” Mike whispers with an eye roll.
“He claimed to be a current patient, but he hasn’t been here in over ten years,” says Rose. “And he was with a crazy lady who climbed over the counter and broke into the doctor’s office. She told me she was going to kill Dr. Batch!”
Not what I said.
“I haven’t heard from Dr. Batch all day, and now I’m worried because there are two lunatics who have threatened to murder her!”
Again, not what I said.
“I called her husband,” says Rose. “And he isn’t answering his phone either.”
“Did you catch the gir
l’s name?” Woodson asks.
“No, I didn’t.” Rose props her hands on her hips. “I’d recognize her face if I saw her again. Her makeup looked like a three-year-old applied it.”
Hey!
“I should call the police, right? I haven’t heard from Dr. Batch all morning, and now we have the two crazies.”
“If you’re worried, then you should.” Woodson nods toward the office door. “Care if I take a look inside?”
“Please, please.” Rose opens the door for him. “Can you dust for fingerprints? I bet those two have prints on file!”
We do.
“Did you read their thoughts?” Mike asks once Rose and Woodson are inside Connie’s office.
I shake my head. “They were too far away … and where is Connie?”
“I’m here now,” Connie says, walking slowly up the stairs. “I needed to collect myself.”
“Zoe,” says Mike. “I have a new vision.”
“What vision?” Connie asks.
“It’s … uh … a medium thing. Can you give us a minute?” I close the door and go down to the second-floor landing, far enough where Connie can’t hear but close enough where I can still keep an eye on her. “Am I still dead?” I ask.
He presses his forehead to mine, and I can see the vision. It’s the same home with the two-car garage and boat. The sun is still setting. I am there, and I am alive.
Hallelujah!
I knew we could change the future. What a relief. Looks like I can eat caviar after all. In the vision I am talking to Connie. The male spirit is still there, although we haven’t met him yet because I don’t recognize his presence. There is a third spirit …
Oh, no.
“It’s you,” I choke out and pull away. “You’re the third spirit.”
“I am.”
“That is not happening.” I pace in a small circle, biting at my cuticles. “How did us coming here cause you to die instead of me?”
Mike shrugs his shoulders.
So by helping, I’ve actually made things worse.
While I don’t want to die, I’d much rather be the one to transition to the next phase. Mike is the first man I’ve ever loved. The only person I can be myself with. He’s my best friend and boyfriend and partner in crime.
Call me selfish, but I don’t want to live without him.
No. No. No. No. No. No. I refuse to let Mike die. He will not die. The vision is foggy. Granted, it’s not as foggy as it was before. We can still change the future. We will change the future. The future is going to change. Period.
We need to get out of here.
But first, I have to rein in my emotions.
Breathe, Zoe. Breathe.
“Zoe,” Mike says.
“Hold on. I’m breathing.” I take in a slow breath up through my nose and push it out slowly through my mouth. I do this a few more times.
Okay. I’m ready. “Let’s go to Don’s apartment.”
“What about the bathroom?” Mike asks.
“We can’t risk the security guard seeing us,” I whisper. “Now that I really think about it, Connie remembers being out by the dumpsters. So she was alive at that point. The best shot we have at changing your vision is to find the killer, and I think the killer took her to a second location—maybe to the house with the boat. Let’s check with Don first since he lives close by.” I tromp up the stairs to where Connie is wringing her hands. “We have to go.”
“This is getting really intense,” she says. “I want to wake up.”
“Remember, you are smart and strong and fierce and dead and hold on a second.” My phone is buzzing in my back pocket. I check to see who is calling. It's Mrs. Batch! “Let me take this real quick.”
“Zoe,” Mike hisses. “What are you doing?”
“It’s Mrs. Batch,” I whisper and wave for Connie to follow me down the stairs.
Connie shakes her head no.
“Come on,” I whisper.
Connie shakes her head no.
“We have to go now.” Is yell-whispering a thing? If so, that’s exactly what I’m doing. “Come on.”
Connie relents and pads down the stairs.
Good.
Now I can answer my phone.
“Hello.” I keep my voice low and my eyes on the steps in front of me. “How are you doing, Mrs. Batch?”
“Hello there, Zoe Lane,” she says, sounding far too cheery for someone whose granddaughter-in-law has been murdered. She must not know. “Good news. Mrs. Clark saw Jabba in her yard this morning.”
Good news?
Mrs. Clark lives on the other side of town. Jabba is lazy. I have no idea how he could make it that far when he can barely walk from my room to the kitchen without taking a nap halfway through his journey.
“And little Johnny Hancock thinks he saw your cat behind the dry cleaners,” she continues. “That two-thousand-dollar reward has sure motivated everyone. The entire town is searching for Jabba. Heck, I’m at Earl Park right now, and I can see Doctor Karman looking through the bushes with a bag of catnip. We’re bound to find him.”
I’ve lost the ability to breathe.
Two thousand dollars!
I grab hold of the back of Mike’s shirt to stop him before he takes another step. “Did you change the flyer I made to say two thousand dollars instead of two hundred?”
“I didn’t touch the flyers once you handed them to me,” he says.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I return to Mrs. Clark. “Do you have the flyer?” I ask.
“I’ve got it right here. The new pharmacist, Mrs. Denam, made copies for everyone. And you were right in your article—she is a delightful addition to Fernn Valley.”
Not if she’s passing out flyers offering up two thousand of my non-existent dollars. “Can you send me a picture of the flyer, please? Also, have you spoken to your grandson Russell today?”
“Not today. How do you know Russell?”
“We have … an … uh … acquaintance.”
“Alive acquaintance or dead acquaintance? It’s been a while since you saw one of your dead people.”
Not that long, I feel like telling her.
Mrs. Batch has always believed in my ability to see and speak to the dead. She carries around a list of the deceased she would like to connect with. Most of the individuals on the list are dictators and former presidents. I refuse to connect her with Mussolini so she can “give him a piece of her mind” just as I refuse to be the one to tell her that Connie is dead. That is not the news you deliver over the phone.
“Mrs. Batch, can you send me a picture of the flyer? And if you hear from Russell, please let me know,” I say. “It’s important.”
“Of course, dearie. And don’t you worry. We’ll find your cat. There’s even talk of forming a big search party and splitting the reward between us all.”
“That’s … awesome.” So much for the good people of Fernn Valley not wanting to take my money.
Six
We make it to my car unseen—or so we hope. I punch Don’s address into my GPS, and ten minutes later we’re parked in front of a two-story apartment building with patios filled with pots and folding chairs and BBQ grills and broken wind chimes. The walls are a patchwork of different shades of beige from where graffiti has been painted over, and I count three windows that are held together with duct tape.
The pedestrian gate falls off the hinges when I push it open. We watch it crash to the ground in a cloud of rust.
“Let’s pretend it was like that when we got here,” Mike says.
“Solid plan.” I step over the gate and into the courtyard. There are two leathery women sunbathing in lounge chairs next to a pool that looks more like a swamp, and a man sitting on a couch outside—what I assume to be—his apartment, smoking something that doesn’t smell legal. No one even so much as looks our way.
Up the stairs we go to unit twenty-four. Curtains block the window, and the doormat is thic
k and brown and woven and says WELCOME YOU ARE NOT.
Mike knocks on the door anyway.
No answer.
He knocks again, and we wait.
Nope.
A woman pushing a stroller walks by. We smile and wave and pretend we’re not there to catch a killer. We wait for her to pass before Mike wiggles the doorknob. It’s locked. We determine Don is not home.
“This is good, actually,” I say. “Connie, you can go into his apartment and look around.”
Connie gasps. “I cannot walk into my patient's apartment, especially given the current situation.”
“No one will know you’ve been in there,” Mike says. “You can make sure—” He snaps his mouth shut and inspects the handrail, giving it a shake when a twenty-something-year-old guy wearing a San Francisco Giants hat and carrying a French bulldog also wearing a San Francisco Giants hat walks past us.
“Hi,” I say with a friendly smile.
The guy jerks his chin and says, “S’up,” and keeps walking.
“Dude, this is not stable.” Mike shakes the handrail.
“The guy's gone,” I say. “You can cut the act.”
“Not an act. If someone leaned against the railing, they’d easily fall right over. Someone needs to secure this.” He gives the railing another hard shake, and a bolt falls to the ground.
“Please stop breaking the building.”
“This can’t be up to code,” he says.
Probably not, but that’s not why we’re here.
I turn to Connie. “Please walk through the wall and into his apartment. Look for blood, weapons, or a body. Search through all closets and check under the beds and couches. Stick your head through safes and check under the sinks.”
Connie looks as if she’s swallowed a fly and her mind is spinning.
“Don’t overthink this. Just go in and look around,” I say. “Take a mental picture, and I’ll check your thoughts when you return.”
“O-okay.” Connie gulps loudly and steps through the wall.
Mike is still inspecting the handrail.
Almost fifteen minutes later, Connie is back.
“Oh, gosh. Oh, gosh. Oh, gosh.” Her hands are on her knees, and she flickers in and out.
